


all I feel in my stomach is butterflies

by tosca1390



Category: 16th Century CE RPF
Genre: F/M, Gen, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-20
Updated: 2013-12-20
Packaged: 2018-01-05 07:34:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1091277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tosca1390/pseuds/tosca1390
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>A Tudor princess is never alone. </i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	all I feel in my stomach is butterflies

**Author's Note:**

  * For [katayla](https://archiveofourown.org/users/katayla/gifts).



*

 

Mary is quite alone in her chambers when Charles finds her. Dusk sets purple and orange through the windows, the drapes tied back to allow free view. She stands alone with her back to the entrance, reddish-blonde hair spilling loose and free down her spine. Her solitude is striking, and it pleases her. 

A Tudor princess is never alone. 

Her father, in all his monomaniacal paranoia, makes sure there is always a lady-in-waiting with her at all times. A guard, armed to the hilt, is posted to the door of any room she enters. Dynasties await fruition in her womb, diplomacy to be enacted through her marriage vows; with Margaret in Scotland and Henry entangled between poor gentle Catherine of Aragon and whatever princess their father orchestrates for him next, Mary is his most prized possession. He tells her so often – or he did, before he was sealed off in his chambers, awaiting the end. 

Mary is tired. The façade of the perfect princess is easy enough as a shell; but there is no one she feels she can speak her truths too, and be fully content. Not even Henry, and he is as close to her as any sibling can be. 

She stands at the dirt-flecked window, her fingers playing in the deep blue velvet of her sleeves. Richmond is as quiet as a cathedral at midnight, every creak and step fraught with the anxieties of death. The solitude is a gift and she breathes it in. Perhaps, perhaps this is the beginning of something fresh, new; perhaps now, she may have a moment of freedom. 

“Princess.”

Color flushes the pale skin of her throat at the sound of Charles’s low voice. Taking a deep, slow breath, she turns her face just slightly, peering at him through the fall of her hair against her cheek. 

“Charles. You find me quite alone.”

“Worryingly so,” he says with a grin. It is a smile she dreams of often. Just past thirteen, there are changes coming to her, changes she barely understands. Her mother is long gone, just a faint memory of Catherine is a pious gentle thing, with a Bible verse always at the ready; Mary has her God, but sanctimony is already something she shies from. 

In truth, Mary is always alone, even with her constant guard. It makes for lonely company. 

“I have no thought as to where my ladies or my friendly guard may be,” she says at last, facing him fully. 

“Paying their respects, I imagine.”

Ah. She tilts her head, mouth curving downwards. “The King my father is dead, then.”

For the first time since she’s known him, Charles looks startled. “No one told you?”

She lifts her shoulders in a delicate shrug, lacing her fingers in front of her silver-stitched bodice. “What does a girl have to wonder about the business of kingship?” she asks lightly. Henry has other things on his mind than to comfort his youngest sister, no matter how close the sibling bonds forged in isolation and maternal loss. 

Charles blinks, dark hair falling across his brow. He steps further into the sitting room, halting just a foot’s length from her. Worry creases his brow, his mouth turned down. “I am very sorry for your loss,” he says quietly. 

“It’s – it was expected. Long live the King,” she says after a moment. She always felt as if she knew little of her father. She knows even less of how to mourn him. Henry hates him, mourns him in a tortured way; Margaret always a fount of resistance and protest. She, though, is Mary; pretty, sweet, baby Mary. A pet to all, a woman to none. 

His hands flex at his sides, his plain white tunic stretched tight over his broad shoulders. The formality of the court has dissolved in the wake of her father’s decline. Mary minds it very little. 

“Perhaps now you may escape the Austrian marriage,” he says lightly. 

“I marry at the pleasure of my brother the King,” she parrots, well-trained. 

Charles laughs, a lovely husky sound. “Come, I think I know you better than that, Mary.”

The use of her Christian name startles her, warms her. She feels the flush at the apples of her cheeks. Her palms suddenly grow damp, locked together as they are. “I – “

“I should not have been so free with you just then, Princess,” he says after a moment, voice strained. 

She looks up at him with a naked, fierce gaze. “I do not mind.”

“Your brother would,” he says wryly. 

She tosses her head, rolling her eyes in a very unbecoming way. If her grandmother Richmond could see her now. “I don’t particularly care for Henry’s brand of propriety.”

“I am his man,” Charles says, serious and steady. 

Mary looks at him, a little caught off-guard. He wets his lips and sets his jaw, face a statue. “I am his man, always. So I care for his wishes, when it comes to you.”

Laughing a little, she sighs. “You’re a good man, Charles.”

“I am not, and I’ll thank you to realize it,” he drawls. 

“Oh, I know just what you are,” she says loftily, cheeks flushed with the exchange. She hears the same gossip and rumors as everyone else. “That doesn’t mean I still don’t believe you are a good man.”

He ducks his head for a moment, and she takes a strange amount of pleasure at that. Since when does any woman, no matter her age, abash the great Charles Brandon?

“Besides, Henry will care little for your use of the familiar,” she adds, lightening her voice. “He is too busy extricating himself even now from his own Austrian marriage, I’m sure,” she retorts. “I would not be surprised a whit if Catherine arrived at whichever palace Henry moves us to tomorrow.”

Charles raises an eyebrow, amusement playing at his mouth. “You hear and see too much for a princess.”

“I see exactly what I want and like to.”

They look at each other for a long moment. Mary feels as if she is finally something other than a child in his gaze, something more. Heat suffuses her cheeks but she keeps her gaze steady. Charles is all sharp angles and muscle in the dusky light, an image of vitality and protection. He has always been handsome, but to her he is kind and playful, unlike her stubborn and sharp-tongued brother. She does not know what it all means, but it leaves her with a warm sensation in her middle. 

“Will you come to supper, my lady?” he asks at last.

“If you will escort me,” she says with a small smile. 

That slight twist of a grin bends his mouth. With a bow at the waist, he offers her his arm. Mary curtsies slightly and takes it, her hand resting lightly over his large warm one. 

“God help the man who sets himself in your way,” he murmurs as they leave her chambers. 

Mary flushes and smiles. She knows a compliment from Charles when she hears one. 

 

*


End file.
